


Music At Night

by mydogwatson



Series: The Postcard Tales [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dumping Mary, M/M, Marriage, Music, Pre-Slash, Retirement, Reunion, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5145581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music At Night

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a bit of a cheat. I knew what I wanted to do, so the postcard was mostly just a summary. The story would not have fit. Sorry.

1  
The first time it happened, John had been living at Baker Street for only a week. A busy, crazy and completely wonderful week. Well, killing a man was not necessarily wonderful, but his action had saved Sherlock Holmes and already John Watson felt as if he might have found his life’s work.

Anyway, he’d been caught in the throes of yet another nightmare, as if the war wanted to remind him of his past. Or maybe to warn him not to count on his future. But something was different this time, although it took him several moments of gasping panic to realise what it was.

And then the soft notes of violin music floated up from the sitting room, making their way thru the darkness and finding John’s bedroom. He didn’t know what the song was, but it didn’t matter at all.

Whatever the piece was, Sherlock was playing it for him, John knew, even without any evidence of the fact. He let the music wrap around him like a warm quilt or a lover’s arms and fell into a peaceful sleep.

2  
Everything was falling apart. 

John knew that all the good things in his life were slipping away and there was nothing he could do to stop it. They weren’t even talking about it, although he tried. But Sherlock just retreated into his mind palace and ignored him. Mycroft was no help. Lestrade had no idea what was going on. Mrs Hudson seemed to understand that Sherlock was floundering , but the landlady had such faith in him that she simply clucked her tongue a bit, patted John on the shoulder, and let them be.

It seemed as if there were nothing they could do but wait for Moriarty to make his move and hope it could be countered. The alternative did not bear thinking of.

John did not want to go to his room and leave Sherlock on his own, so instead he stretched out on the settee and watched his friend pace. At some point, he drifted off.

The music woke him.

As usual, Sherlock was standing by the window as he played. The sound was so achingly sad that John felt tears come into his eyes. He ignored them and just listened as Sherlock let the notes say things that neither of them could put into words.

3  
All of his nightmares now came with the soft strains of a violin playing in the background. That final conversation. The fall that, in the dreams, made Sherlock into an oddly fragile, fluttering figure. The heartbreaking feel of a wrist with no pulse. The cold emptiness of a black headstone. It all haunted him every night and there was always the music.

Each time he jerked into wakefulness, though the images were gone, he could still hear the music. It was so real. John couldn’t help himself and so yet again he lurched up from the bed and hurried into the sitting room. His gaze went right to the window and he really expected to see Sherlock standing there in his dressing gown, the violin tucked under his chin. John planned to tell him to please, please, play something happier. Something not so sad.

But there was no one there and the music stopped.

The next day John moved out of 221B.

4  
It was not easy, because nothing ever was, not for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. There had been tears and laughter, anger and joy, pain and confusion when Sherlock returned from the dead. He had expected to find everything as he’d left it, as if London and the people there had been set in aspic until he was back to bring it all to life again.

And, honestly, it felt much the same way to John.

There were complications, of course, most especially an engagement that was not going to survive, because no one else could compete with Sherlock. Mary was not especially pleasant about it, but he didn’t expect her to be.

But it was not long before John and Sherlock were back in their flat.

It was not much longer than that before they were in bed together. Inevitable, really, at least in hindsight.

After they made love for the first time, John felt into a sated, entirely happy and absolutely dreamless sleep.

Some time later, he awoke to the sound of violin music, very close by. There was only a brief moment of panic before he opened his eyes and saw a naked Sherlock Holmes sitting at the foot of the bed playing a song. As usual, John did not know what it was. But it was a sweetly sentimental tune and he smiled.

5  
It took a ridiculous amount of time for John to get himself up from the bed, slide his feet into some slippers, grab his cane and walk out of the bedroom. Old age was hell, he thought yet again. In addition to that, it was far too early to be up, so early that the sun had not yet appeared. In consequence, he was prepared to be in a grumpy mood.

But the faint sound of music that had awakened him continued and so he kept moving. Once in the parlour of their cottage, he went directly to the open window. What he saw outside in the garden made him give a rusty chuckle. Wearing only his dressing gown and a pair of battered Wellingtons and with the dog at his feet, Sherlock was standing near the hives, playing his violin. Serenading the bees? Gladstone IV? John had been around Sherlock long enough not to be surprised by anything. But, truthfully, John knew that the concert was for him. Somehow Sherlock seemed to sense that he was there and turned to face him, smiling faintly. The tangled silver curls looked almost like a halo in the lingering moonlight, although Sherlock would mock him for the thought.

The piece was something Sherlock had been working on for several weeks now, so John had heard bits and pieces emerge, but now it seemed to be finished. He liked the cheerful song. Then, without warning, the music shifted and became a lively version of Happy Birthday. 

An hour before dawn, John Watson rested against the window and listened as his husband serenaded him.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Title from: Music At Night by Aldous Huxley


End file.
